G03 - Resolution (46 page)

“I don’t know anything about this,” said Margaret, picking up an overturned chair and sitting down.

“What did you do with your money?” He said it calmly, as if he were just asking an idle question.

“Fuck off,” said Margaret casually, lifting a copy of Managers’ Monthly off the desk and pretending to read it. Her left hand fell to her shoulder bag, the index finger sliding open the zip. He knew she had a knife in there.

“Don’t be stupid,” said Si. “I was just asking. Mine’s in the Bank of Pakistan. They can’t get it there.”

Margaret’s hand moved smoothly, doing up the zip again. “I don’t know why I had to come.” She looked around the small gray room. “I hate it here.”

“Look,” said Si, handing her a sheet of paper, “they’ve left this.”

The door to the office opened slowly and Margaret stood up, her hand in her bag in a flash. Si could see the knife, the blade bared, and he was relieved that she was nearer to the door than he was.

“Hiya. What’s happening?” It was Kevin, still wearing his surgical collar and grinning as if he were welcoming them back from holiday.

Margaret tutted and dropped the knife. “Fuck’s sake,” she said, and fell back into the seat. “What are you doing here?”

Kevin took a step towards her and shot Margaret Frampton through the back of the head.

Si watched his sister’s face explode, her nose, her eyes, her forehead splash outward, red and black, like a carnivorous tropical plant bursting suddenly into flower. The force of the blast shoved her slim body forward slightly, making her nod before coming true and settling back into the chair. Si blinked and looked. It was nonsensical. There had been no noise. He blinked and looked again, forgetting to breathe. Useless, dim-witted Kevin raised his hand again and shot Si three times in the chest. Si McGee slid to his knees, leaving a red trail on the wall behind him, tipping over a box file of Managerial News.

Moving stiffly so as not to jerk his sore neck, Kevin stepped across the office, feeling in Si’s pocket. He found his mobile and lifted it out, flipping it open and pressing in a long number. At the other end the phone rang only once before being answered.

“Done,” said Kevin, watching Margaret’s body slide down off the chair and land under the desk. He nodded. “Yeah, everyone’ll know it was for Doyle, no one’ll fuck yees about up here.” He nodded again. “Okay. Tell Charlie I’ll be there.”

Kevin hung up, wiped the mobile and slid it back into Si McGee’s pocket. He stepped across McGee’s legs to the fire exit and opened the door, slipping out to the lane, leaving the door open just enough for some nosy bastard to find them.

Winnie was in an open ward with the blinds drawn on the window behind her and the curtains pulled around her bed. She had the covers over her head. Maureen peeked under the blankets. Winnie’s eyes were bloody and her face waxy white. She looked through tiny slit eyes and mouthed, “Hello.” Maureen mouthed it back and withdrew.

A peculiarly gnarled-looking man and woman were standing nearby, chatting to each other. George explained that they were Winnie’s friends from AA and had come to visit her at his request. Winnie was being sent to a drying-out clinic in Peebles as soon as she could stand, and her friends had offered to escort her there in their car. Maureen threw her arms around George and hugged him without his consent. He stood stiffly, bashful at showing emotion in front of strangers. He raised a hand to her head and patted it a couple of times. “You’re a good girl,” he said, but she heard him ask her to let him go, for God’s sake, there were people watching.

Una arrived as if she were moving into the ward. She had the baby with her in a harness, a big soft bag of things, her handbag and a poly-bag of pills and food and magazines for Winnie. George was chatting to the gnarled couple so Maureen had to help her with the bags, tucking them under the bed. Una wanted to go round the bed and see Winnie’s head and, with overplayed reluctance, let Maureen hold the baby. She stormed round the bed and lifted the covers abruptly, in a way only someone who didn’t drink or understand hangovers could. She talked Winnie through the vitamins and magazines she had brought, speaking loudly, making every muscle on Winnie’s back and head contract.

The baby was tiny. Her fingers flexed in her sleep and tightened at the sound of her mother’s voice. Her fist was the size of a thumbnail, perfect in every detail. Her pink lips pouted, her tongue rolled out and she opened her eyes. They were blue, pale, pale blue, just like Maureen’s and Liam’s eyes.

“Her eyes,” said Maureen, breathlessly, “they’re blue.”

Una looked up and her sour expression softened. “All babies have blue eyes at first,” she said, “but I think they’ll stay blue.”

“She’s not ugly at all,” said Maureen quietly.

Liam came, looking happier and calm. They all moved their chairs around the bed to Winnie’s face and sat in a circle. George poked Winnie in the cheek and she groaned and tried to roll away from him but she was too sore and groaned again, then rolled back, a reluctant smile tugging at one corner of her mouth. George said see, she can move, look, she can move when she wants to. They taunted her, playing the hilarious passive-aggressive games that only truly dysfunctional families understand, laughing louder and louder because Winnie had the mother of all hangovers, asking Winnie what the food was like in here and did she have a trumpet the baby could play with. Even the AA people joined in, adding quips of their own. The AA man pretended to run out to the shops for some kippers and Stilton but came back, escorted by a staff nurse, who told them all to shut up and keep the noise down, there were sick people in here. And all the while Maureen kept hold of the baby, cradling it against her chest, cherishing it, hoping she would get to hold wee Maureen again and again.

She didn’t even believe her own excuses anymore. She wasn’t drinking because she wanted to. It wasn’t because she’d achieved anything or even because she was sad. It was compulsive and she couldn’t stop herself. She unscrewed the cap from Leslie’s half bottle and drank it straight, greedily, as if someone might try to stop her, pausing for breath and refusing to think about what she was doing. And then the familiar blanket came down.

It was later and she was worried, falling down the close steps one at a time, holding on to the wall, clinging to her purse. It was light outside and she couldn’t quite remember whether it was morning or evening. Outside now and evening, definitely evening. The charity bags that she had left under the lamppost had been split open and three small boys had pulled her old dresses over their clothes and were laughing excitedly, pushing one another into a thick hedge.

Inside the shop and Padda Junior looking at her, making a joke, a man behind her laughing and Junior looking away. They were laughing at her because she was pissed.

It smarted for as long as she could remember it. A young boy and a stranger laughing at her because she was steaming and alone, as if she were Winnie, as if her being pissed wasn’t completely different. She set the thoughts aside and realized that she was at last alone with a bottle with no one to ask her what she was doing. She toasted her reflection in the living-room window, a defiant fuck-them, and drank. The nagging realization wouldn’t go away. Even Padda Junior had noticed she had a problem.

The walls of Maureen’s mouth began to tingle, sending messages of alarm to her brain, telling her to run for it. Before she had time to think, she was on her knees in the bathroom, pushing the seat and lid up against the cistern, dropping her mouth to the water. Her chin smashed off the porcelain bowl and her head ricocheted back just in time to catch the rim of the seat as it fell on her forehead.

When she had finished being sick she stood up unsteadily and looked at herself in the mirror. She had an inch-long bruise on her forehead, one under her chin and a stripe of vomit on her cheek.

It didn’t feel like the last day of her life. She had the immediate problem of a searing hangover to deal with. It was never usually this bad when she’d thrown up the night before. As she washed her face in the sink of cold water she began to remember Mr. Padda’s shop and hung her head in shame.

She took painkillers and watched the phone as she drank her coffee. She watched it and knew she’d have to do it sometime, if she didn’t want to end up in a hospital bed with everyone taking the piss out of her. She stood up and dialed Benny’s mobile number. He wasn’t answering and she was pleased. She left a message asking him to contact her, please. She thought she’d better do something about her drinking.

She got dressed with her shades on. Kilty would think it was strange that she was wearing shades in the house, so she put on her coat as well, hoping that she’d just look as if she were ready to go.

When she opened the door Kilty looked her up and down. “Are you hungover again?”

Maureen sighed. “The shades are the giveaway, aren’t they?”

“No, not really,” said Kilty, pushing past her. “It’s the body, the face and the hair.”

“Shit.” She followed Kilty into the living room. “Hungover on a Monday, they’ll think I’m a fucked-up waster.”

“Maureen, you need to address the—”

Maureen held up her hand and took a painfully deep breath. “Please, Kilty, help me today,” she said. “Please, I’m going to a meeting tomorrow.”

“Promise?”

“I do, I promise, I promise.”

“Okay, then.”

Kilty sat her down on the floor and took out a tiny makeup bag. She used concealer and blusher to draw features onto Maureen’s face and put some eyeliner on her top lid to make her eyes look open, explaining that she wouldn’t put it on the inside because her watery eyes would just make it run. By the time Leslie arrived the painkillers were kicking in, the blusher was doing its job and Maureen looked as if she were just having a slightly off day.

“Maureen’s going to a meeting tomorrow,” said Kilty, as she let her in.

“Good,” said Leslie. “Who’re ye going with?”

“I phoned Benny,” said Maureen, wishing to fuck she hadn’t told Kilty. She was bound to change her mind by the next day but knew they’d hold her to it.

“Right?” said Kilty. “Let’s go.”

A sharp wind hurled through the town, tugging the edges of their coats. They arrived at the court by eleven, which was ridiculously early because the jury would hardly have had time to sit down. Kilty chatted up the guard at the door and he told her to sit just outside and listen for a Tannoy announcement that Court One was coming back. They spent the next hour standing on the windy steps, smoking and waiting to hear. Kilty went down the road to a shop and brought back three takeaway coffees.

Forty minutes into their wait Liam arrived, with a broad smile for Maureen and a nod for the other two. Angus’s family turned up, dressed up for the photographs, and scuttled past them on the steps, knowing who they were now that Maureen had given evidence.

At twelve twenty a white van pulled up at the gates, followed by a black taxi. The side door on the van slid back and three men got out: a man in a slick suit, another guy with a furry microphone on a long stick and a cameraman. They hovered in the door of the van, fixing a large light to the top of the camera, while the smartly dressed man smoothed his hair. Whoever was in the black cab was talking to the driver. The door opened. It was Joe McEwan, wearing casual jeans, a leather jacket and a baseball cap. He glanced at the cameraman and walked past, coming straight for Maureen. He acknowledged Liam and looked at Maureen, nodding her over to one side. “How are ye, Joe?” she said.

“The word is Farrell’s getting out,” he said, “and if he does, we think he’ll be coming for you.”

“Oh?” she said, feeling as if he was being silly because the dark days were past now and this was just a tie-up, just a small detail that needed finishing off.

“I expect you’ve heard about your dad?”

“Michael? Aye.”

“He’s a vicious bastard.” Joe reached out and squeezed her upper arm in a soldierly gesture of solidarity. “I’m sorry.”

She was astonished. “It’s okay, Joe.”

“If Farrell gets out it won’t be for long. The Fiscal’s applying for an arrest warrant for the rapes right now.”

She nodded, wanting to get away from him and back to her friends, back to pretending that things were fine. The Tannoy warbled through the revolving door and Kilty called for Maureen to come. “Ye coming in?” she said.

Joe shook his head. “Look, we’ll be rearresting him as soon as we can.”

She smiled. “He might not get off.”

“If he does we’ll meet you at your house, okay?”

“Okay.”

Joe pressed his lips together, and backed off down the steps to the waiting taxi.

“Come on, Mauri,” said Liam. “It’s time.”

They got good seats at the front, near the jury, and Maureen noticed that neither Carol Brady nor Elsbeth was there. The lawyers gathered around the central table, tense and nervous. Angus’s lawyer was sucking a sweet. The ratchet noise of a lock being pulled back heralded footsteps on stone stairs, and Angus Farrell came up from the cells, escorted on either side by two guards. He was wearing a smart sports jacket in a small brown check and his demeanor gave nothing away. The bow-tied man came through a side door calling, “Court,” and carrying a big metal mace with a little crown on top. Everyone in the room scrambled to their feet. Angus’s lawyer crunched his sweetie into little bits and swallowed it. Then the judge came in and they were allowed to sit down again.

The bow-tied man disappeared through a side door and the members of the jury filed back into the court. The giggling man and woman had grown tired of each other’s company or had fallen out. They weren’t sitting together or looking at each other. The judge asked something and the foreman stood up and unfolded a bit of paper. The case against Angus Farrell for the murder of Douglas Brady was found not proven, a verdict particular to Scots law, which meant that they thought he had probably done it but that there wasn’t enough evidence. He was found not guilty of murdering Martin Donegan on the grounds of automatism.